


Panthera quartet

by Builder



Series: Pantherverse [4]
Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Moments, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 09:43:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: 4 x 100-word drabbles on missing moments with plausible T'Challa whump





	Panthera quartet

**Author's Note:**

> Weird. Short. Artistic. SORRY.

 

* * *

 

_Ritual Combat I_

 

* * *

 

T’Challa’s heart is pounding even before he swallows the potion.  It’s sour and heavy on his tongue.  He was strong of body and spirit before taking up the mantle of the panther, so he should still be strong now.  But strong doesn’t mean not afraid.

 

He tips his head back and lets Zuri finish pouring the contents of the bowl into his mouth.  T’Challa’s throat works to send the liquid down.  It burns at the back of his mouth.  He feels hot around his neck and weak around his knees.  Even his thoughts seem to dull.  His sleepless night is apparent now.  His stomach clenches, and he does his best to swallow nausea with his nerves.

 

* * *

 

_Recovery in the Sand_

 

* * *

 

T’Challa coughs as his vision flickers and familiar surroundings come into focus.  His chest feels tight, as if he’s just been squeezed through time and space twice over.  The sand beneath him gives his body a weightless feeling, and it does nothing to help his lightheadedness. 

 

“Breathe, my king,” Zuri says, grasping T’Challa’s arm.  Grains of red dust cling to the perspiration around his temples. 

 

“My…my father was—” T’Challa pants, gulping down air faster than his lungs can take it in.  His jaw is tight, his entire body shaking with exhaustion and excitement.  He tries to swallow, but his throat goes into contraction and sends him gagging into the sand by his shoulder. 

 

“It’s alright,” Zuri murmurs.  “Breathe, my king.”

 

* * *

 

_Ritual Combat II_

 

* * *

 

T’Challa’s stomach writhes as he watches Zuri hold up the ceremonial bowl.  The memory of the potion running through him as his limbs shook and his throat spasmed are too fresh.  He’d rather endure pain than feel the weakness and nausea again. 

 

There’s no resisting, though, and as Zuri approaches with the bowl, T’Challa obediently opens his lips.  Fear brings on vertigo before the first swallow, and clammy sweat breaks out over his brow and runs down his back. 

 

T’Challa takes a deep breath to slow his heart rate.  He’s going to be fine, he tells himself.  He’s not going to vomit.  And he’s not going to die.

 

* * *

 

_Recovery in the Snow_

* * *

 

The first thing T’Challa feels is the cold.  It spears through the chest, sending a tingling chill down to his bones.  He can’t stop his teeth from chattering, even after Nakia pulls him out of the snow and his mother wraps him in blankets.  An hour passes, then two, and shivers still wrack his shoulders.

 

“You need to eat.  Get your strength up,” Shuri says.

 

“Later.  I will,” T’Challa whispers through his trembling jaw.

 

Nakia drapes her arm around his shoulders.  “You’re feeling ill, aren’t you?  I can see it in your face.”

 

T’Challa offers a quavering smile. 

 

He can’t refuse any more when M’Baku himself comes bearing a cup of tea.  “You’re going to have quite a day ahead of you,” he says, sitting at T’Challa’s other side.  “So drink up.”  He offers the mug.  “My king.” 


End file.
